One hundred and more years of solitude
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: Disclaimer: Praised by Toby Whithouse for this magnificent show. The characters named belong to him. The story is my conception of the introspection of a shark. Reviews welcomed.


Toby Whithouse be praised.

This short story looks at what is really the life of a vampire and to what extremes said lives are reduced when tomorrows are but a repeat of yesterdays.

One hundred years of solitude.

It was getting darker every day a bit sooner. At home. It was November. Bad enough it was November, but recently 'they' had changed 'hours'. They had even discussed switching to Prussian … sorry German hour. They had digital watches, cosmic timeline, and galactic vision. They changed everything he knew…these days. These days…Here it was getting warmer, sunnier. Shinier. Here you had to wear sunglasses.

In his days, time was… amendable. You were lucky to write: to be able, to know how to write. You were lucky if the person who received your letter knew how to read and answer back. You never imagined that one day you'd be able to track down the delivery. You never bothered to ask for a receipt… You did not own a wristwatch. Some people were trying to invent… what was the name…clepsydra. Time was fluid. Unequal, young. Intense. Alive.

Nowadays, the coffee table standing in front of his last …host was littered with remote controls. Movies could be run backward. Yes, like his life if it could but go backward. It only knew how to go…Forever young. Never wiser. Frozen in time. His life only knew one way; one damned one-way. Forward. One-way life, one-way street. One size fitted all. Life had seen to fit his life with fascinating tidbits of information. Information which was minutely precise albeit just a detail. Nice to know Earth was round, or that new lands existed. They even bothered to leave their footprints on the Moon. What did that mean for his kind? Nothing. What did that really mean for humans. Did e=mc2 make you better, worse? Did it stop the pain of the loss; did it provide joy? Did it satisfy the need of some company?

All he, all they- his kind- needed was to feed. The rest, the dreams, the romance, the excitation about finding was 'theirs'. When your life was so tragically short, you were allowed to dream, to hanker after the Horizon, to play with fantasy, imaginary friends. You could go metaphorically over the rainbow looking for a golden crock. When all you did was either to feel hungry, or sated with the rare bonus of the cheap thrill of actually digging your teeth inside their juicy arteries, you did not feel the need to dream because all you were was to be consumed by hunger. Hunger consummated your life.

You could still discuss tales, legends, stories, plays but you did not belong. It was because you knew you could, you were to lose it all at one point that all was significant. When you were eternal; well almost eternal, you did not need; you did not feel the need for the wait, the expectations. You lost the sensation. You had the edge, but life was shapeless, uniform. You became jaded, bored. Today was like tomorrow and yesterday. You were more or less hungry then you fed and after that you waited till you were hungry again. You did not see the stars, you did not look for the stars; you did not have anymore the right to wish upon a star. You had nothing to wish for… you were eternal. You were a lost soul. You had lost it; not, not the soul. The desire to touch the star. Tomorrow held no charm; no more charm for you but the wait for the next prey, the next boring feed. You had become an animal.

Soon, the calendar would turn to a new year and a new heyday for Hunting. Rio…the carnival. So many people, so many potential preys. So many feeds. Rio was his favourite hunting ground. Brazil was ideal for his…kind of people. The favellas were not exactly welcoming to the police forces. Who knew who cared? Who even bothered to notice if someone, anyone was missing? The tourists, now that was different. The humans who knew about him were candidly open. You may hunt the destitute, the homeless but touch to one tourist and you are 'cinzas'. And you had to smile…He had learnt to be good at smiling.

And you hunted the poor who were way richer than you, because they had no tomorrow and you knew rain or shine you would have a tomorrow always. The poor knew their sleep could be their last. Their door was ready. Your, his door was closed. No more too be seen.

No toothache, no headache except when you were blood–drunk and the fun had quickly waned away. No heart attack, no stroke, no cancer…Just a constant heartache, that niggling jealousy. That relentless envy of a door; of a next chapter of a very long life. You went on living no life, because what you lived was not a life.

After some many years, money was no more a problem. Because the darn change still gave you a hunger for human food, the need to clothe your body and keep the icy coolness of the grave at bay, you quickly learnt to save the coins, sorry the banknotes. You stolel money like you stole blood. You were a thief. A thief of lives. You saved and you made 'alliances'- some humans made you richer, you spare some humans… for a while.

At the beginning, you were just hunger. Then you wished for a companion. But your preys did not want to be your companion. They were supposed to envy you. Well, they did not! Many begged not to die but you drank them and you killed them without so much as a thought, then you had the ones who begged to be turned which you promised but didn't do because they were cowards yet the worst were the ones who begged you not to turn them.

'Kill me if you need, but heaven forbid you soil my immaculate soul'.

And when he craved for a friend; just that. Just a friend. He had read the disgust in his prey's eyes. He had seen them jumping into fire, running against a train. Eager to meet Death rather to become his companion. Males and females, young and old alike. All embracing Death rather to hold his hand. Lepers were better thought of.

When he was turned, he lost naturally his family, his friends, his clan, his people. He became an apatride. At first, it was fun; then it got cold, lonely. After a few centuries, he secretly welcomed his admission among the group. After a few more centuries, he wished he had never been accepted, never been sought. His kind was not what he was looking for. Even sharks did not long for the company of sharks.

He wanted; he wanted new…new…something new, something fresh. He wanted a tomorrow which would not look like all his yesterdays. He had been obliged to give up on the companion thing. The last time, he had tried to turn… he could not but remember the shame. The victim with her neck wound, barely able to do it but doing it for the sake of sheer will… holding a stake he had not seen. He jerked backward quickly realizing too late that her plan was: her plan because she had smiled as she rammed into her own chest the wooden spear. Her last word was 'free'.

All the humans were free, free to die, free to enter the afterlife. Free to know what was waiting for them in the next chapter while his life was on a constant rewind, replay. Never forward. Always the same thing. The same old routine. Groundhog eternal nights.

Rio. This line of thoughts was giving him a fit of dismals. Rio. Hunting ground. Blood, hunger, feed. Stay focused on the hunt. Deny the pain; forget the pain. Forget the faces. Especially her face, all 'her' many faces.

Tonight was an extra. He had no plan to drink. Really gov, no plan. But he had drunk and fed. He removed his shirt and tie. Fucking useless mirror. No speck of blood. Well after one thousand years, you would expect to know a few tricks. He was buttoning his jacket when his mobile rang.

'Quem fala?'

'There have been some developments in Bristol'

'….pff… PC Herrick and his delusions of grandeur…Our agent in Barry should take care of that'

'A young one named…I am not making that up Big Bad John has slaughtered a full box of passengers, driver included. The interface is not happy and has declined any payment. They want retribution and we are to sort out our own messes'

'Change the interface'

'Sadly, all our interfaces have made it clear. We clean our 'act' or they go…live'

'I know the cur. I will deal with it'

'Worse. Mitchell has gone mental. Lives with …. Werewolves. And a ghost. Why a ghost? Useless creatures… Cherry on the cake, the bitch must have been in heat because she is…pregnant. We want this sorted'

'Dog pregnancy? Might be fun. Lot more fun than in Pnom Penh or in Berlin'

'A CUB IS NOT FUNNY! Cull them each and every of them!'

'If I am to clear Mitchell's mess, I need an incentive. I want a pedigree chum!'

'You will have to house train it plus do not complain later if Doggie bites the hand who fed him'

The night had come; the jungle near the city was alive. He would walk back home. Jungle equalled animals. Predators. Fangs, claws; poison and Death. Animals were at first hostile and interested, but they quickly realized what the walker was. Was it the un-death they smelled? Whatever, they gave his kind always a wide berth. Down to the crocodiles and the piranhas.

Deprived of human companionship, unhappy with the type of friendship his own people provided, he longed to forge a bond with … what a dog? A Puppy, a cub. He would have to get a cage naturally for the time of the month. But for the 27 other days, he would care for the mysterious little creature. Would it be human, partially human or fully supernatural? Children were naturally attached to their carers. He would contrive to get the companion he craved. If he could not have an adult human or a pet; a supernatural child and pet would have to make do.

Cien anos de Soledad Cem anos Mil anos One thousand years of loneliness Senor Marquez… Solidao. He would know soon. Mitchell would be dealt accordingly and reminded of his status. To be downgraded to attack dog until the group decided the youth had learnt his lesson. This was not a problem. To get his hands on the progeny of the dogs was not a problem.

What the real questions were, was as followed: what name to give to the very young dog? Did werewolf cubs need milk? In which case the bitch had to live…Lassie? Digby? So many questions. The boat passage was booked. All he needed now was to surf the internet and find out how to raise a werewolf… He was already starting to feel less lonely.


End file.
